


Just Try to Remember

by Hellsonlyrose



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7648693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hellsonlyrose/pseuds/Hellsonlyrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>24 year old Christophe Delorne hadn't heard the name Gregory in several years, until he receives a mysterious letter from that very man. Now he's back in London, and everything is different than he remembers- abnormally so. Why does speaking the name 'Eric' seem to cause such unrest among the people? And why can he never seem to say no to that blonde's stupid, smug grin?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dealing with People is the Worst

**Author's Note:**

> So here's to the start of something new! It has about ten chapters or so, and I hope to have one out once a week or so. The Gregstophe fandom is so small, and I can't sit around without new content for any longer! I thrive off of your comments or suggestions! It's good to know that other people still love the ship- and feel free to send me a 'hey' on tumblr! (I'm the same username everywhere) Without further ado~

His apartment smelled like stale cigarettes. Not the kind of semi-sweet smoke that he could breathe through his lips and enjoy as the nicotine rush soothed his brain; but the aftermath. That was always the worst part. He reached for his lighter, a plain silver, and flicked it open effortlessly. A new smoke to sweeten the air while he searched for food. 

Christophe dragged his feet across the floor, scratching at the skin of his back. He could never seem to reach the spot that itched the most… it was always something. God was a miserable asshole who lived only to inconvenience. Really, it wouldn’t have killed him to give people a few extra inches on their wingspan in order to avoid such inconvenience. He scowled, looking down at himself in his state of undress. He never much cared for sleeping in clothes, or wearing clothes at all. Boxers were his wardrobe 24/5. Day six he would throw on jeans in order to venture outside of the house to buy food. Day seven he typically had a job to do, which required clothing and then some. He fucking hated the way bulletproof vests weighed him down… but he also knew that bullets hurt like a bitch.  
He made a noise of contemplation, pulling open and staring down into the refrigerator. The eggs were bad. The vegetables were bad. There was a Tupperware filled with something- it looked like soup, but Christophe couldn’t recall making something of the sort. It might’ve been solid at some point? He let it close with a thump, and let out a long drag of white smoke. There was pasta in the cabinet, but no sauce. He’d have to go out again today… fuck.

His breath momentarily caught in his throat as he eyed a small white envelope. He remained like this for some time, his cigarette ashing on the floor as he remained unblinking; unmoving. He didn’t receive mail. Hell, even online he had two different ghost tracers covering his IP address. Nobody knew who, or where Christophe was… and living in the middle of nowhere didn’t typically garner any junkmail. He took a few shallow steps backwards, pursing his lips as if his breathing might give him away. It was only partially relieving as the cold steel of his handgun slid between his fingers, and even the sound of the safety clicking back was nearly deafening amidst the silence as he edged closer to the door. 

He crept forward, not daring to blink as he approached. He slid a dirt-clodden nail beneath the strip of duct tape covering the seeing hole in the door, and carefully, quietly peeled it back. He saw in a video once that a man had his eye stabbed out by looking directly into a door-peephole. It’s a guaranteed hit- now he always stood a few inches back to be sure. He checked it for ten seconds, fifteen, and then lowered his weapon. There was nobody there. He kept the firearm in hand in case anyone cared (and dared) to linger about, but a check of all windows confirmed that they were most likely long gone. Fuck- adrenaline quickly melted into anger as he narrowed his brow. He picked the envelope up lightly, carefully, as if it may fall to dust if he gripped it too tightly. His fears were confirmed when he turned the paper over, his mouth forming into a tight snarl and revealing just a sliver of teeth. On the envelope’s front in thin, meticulous cursive writing was one word; one name which he’d come to know better than his real one: “Mole”.

His hands trembled. Shit. This was bad- somebody knew where he was and that means he’d have to move again. He actually enjoyed this place. It was quiet and he didn’t have to constantly be around people, and the only animals he had to deal with were deer and the occasional badger… He moved to drag off of his cigarette, and cursed to find it burnt down to its filter. Crushed it went, down into a graveyard of others amidst a glassy tray. He turned the envelope over in his hands, sliding his thumb beneath the sticky seal with a hesitantly slow precision. He really didn’t want to see what was written on the inside.

The paper came out easily, and written on it was the same handwriting as on the envelope. The writing was nearly illegibly neat, with its swoops and curls and dots in all the right places. Cursive writing assholes- it was so unnecessarily pretentious. He read the letter over, and again, and then again once more. It read:

“Dearest Mole, (he winced at the term of endearment)

I know that this letter will find you well, and I apologize for being unable to deliver it myself. Fear not, for it was someone who I trust greatly that has travelled to your address. I’m sure that It’s still the case that you are not the most welcoming of visitors, so I’m writing this in advance to give you some time to mull things over.  
To keep it brief, I require your assistance. I am prepared to offer you a substantial payment in exchange for your services, as it is of upmost importance that it is carried out correctly. You are the only one who I feel I can trust in this matter.  
Meet me in the square of Richmont and Pence at 20:00. I look forward to further correspondence.”

And beneath all this in lieu of a signature, and in even curlier handwriting than Christophe had thought possible, were the words:

“Viva la Resistance.”

“That fucking asshole!” Christophe seethed, his fingers crinkling into the paper nearly hard enough to tear. Of course it was the prissy little British boy, with his girlish handwriting and fancy language. Viva la Resistance, eh? It’d been awhile since he’d heard the phrase. It wasn’t exactly the best memory to revisit. Being killed and somehow brought back through the stupid fucking magic of South Park is sure to do that to a guy. Throughout the whole ordeal, he’d only learned one thing: trust no one. Not idiots who only join revolution because they want to fuck some stupid girl, not fat pricks who can’t follow the simplest of instructions, and especially not British pretty-boys who don’t even come to rescue you as you lay bleeding out in the dirt. All in the midst of a war you didn’t care about. No- Christophe was done playing with others. 

He threw the paper to the ground, fishing in his pocket for a new cigarette. A loud, mangled swear left his lips as his fingers brushed against nothing but the sides of an empty box. Sign #2 that he needed to go out today. Stupid cigarettes. Stupid British piece of shit. He hadn’t seen Gregory in years, after the asshole ditched to go to some fucking elitist college in America. He had no idea how the blonde had managed to track him down… but he was sure as hell going to find out.

Richmond and Pence was a two-hour train ride away, plus the 30-minute hike he had to take to get out of the boondocks. Not that he was going to say yes to such a bullshit request anyways- but Gregory needed to know to stay the fuck out of his business. Somebody knew his address now. Hell, two people. Leave it to that bastard to fuck up everything Christophe had set himself up with. Just like old times, right?

He slid into a pair of tan cargos that he thought were decently clean, and a plain black T-Shirt. Atop that he set himself into a dark green hoodie, where could occupy his hands when he wasn’t smoking. He sneered down at the discarded letter, its contents memorized. Gregory would probably show up in a fucking business suit. Somehow the blonde could look and act like an asshole all he wanted, and people still followed him like he was some martyr. He took class president, valedictorian, and prom king. Fucking prince charming bullshit. High school was nearly six years gone and Christophe still couldn’t get enough space. He frowned, stuffing his wallet into his pocket. Fuck- he really had to do this... Gregory had better be ready to have that perfect grin punched right off his face.  
\----------------------------

The train was loud, and strangers kept to themselves. Not many people were looking to strike up conversation with a man whose hood was pulled all the way over his face. Only an array of brown locks hung down nearly to his eyes, with a scowl that would make even a punk wary. Christophe crossed his arms and leaned his head back against the seat, and thought about a lot of things that he hated. High school. Girls. Boys. Gregory. People who can’t mind their own fucking business. The train ride that was too long. It was able to keep himself more or less occupied in the time it took to arrive.

The square was just as unpleasant as he’d remembered it to be. He squinted his eyes against the sun, cursing the asshat who supposedly created it. “Fucking Cartman” he breathed, then furrowed his brow. Wait, what? It sounded unnatural rolling off his tongue. A horrifically loud sound screamed through the air, seemingly right into his eardrum. His hands gripped desperately at his head for some kind of respite, which did not come as he’d hoped. It felt as if someone were groping around in his brain with fingers of needles. “Merde, ce qui au nom… de ERIC…est cette?!” ((Fuck, what in… ERIC’S name… is this?!)) he growled- nearly screaming through clenched teeth. Eric? Who the fuck was Eric? He crumpled to his knees, the stinging accompanied by an ear-piercing ringing that nobody around seemed to notice. 

A woman in a light yellow blouse ran to Christophe’s side, shouting at him over his wails. “Watch his heathenistic mouth!” She screeched, taking a whack at him with her purse. Another man quickly came to her side and joined in, and soon there were multiple people barking at him in addition to the noise as they yelled for a guard. “How dare you speak His name with your filthy tongue, you street vermin!” 

Christophe was only half aware as a firm hand yanked his around his shoulder, begging apologies and hurriedly dragging him away from the scene.  
“Come on, you need to walk.” The man stated firmly. Christophe did as he was told the best he could, the anguish in his head not allowing for any thoughts otherwise. He could vaguely recognize the ground as cobblestones now through his blurred vision, and he took a deep breath in to try and push down the feeling of needing to vomit rising in his stomach. Each breath in was a hassle, each breath out was his gut begging for relief- not that he’d eaten anything of substance anyways.

“What’s happening?” He managed, hardly able to lift his head. “What in Eric’s… FUCK-” 

The man let Christophe slump to the ground against the wall of the darker alley, just barely away from the business of town. His eyes darted back and forth, clearly aware that this wasn’t the best of places to be lying low. “Don’t say his name. You’re drawing too much attention to yourself.” He brushed at the sleeves of his orange button down shirt, which was neatly tucked into a pair of black slacks. He folded his arms together, and just barely bent over in order to speak more quietly. “Are you alright?”

Christophe blinked his eyes, the screeching in his head dulling to a low grinding headache as he breathed. He didn’t need to look up at the man who had brought him here to know who it was- he’d recognize that accent anywhere, no matter how many years it’d been. The hero, the savior, and the same asshole that he had remembered him to be. “Fucking peachy.” 

Gregory didn’t falter. He met Christophe’s gaze and offered his hand, his expression not quite as carefree as Christophe had remembered it. “We need to go somewhere else. It’s not safe here.” 

Christophe narrowed his brow. Fucking wonderful- and he still didn’t have his cigarettes. He disregarded Gregory’s hand, pushing himself up using his hands on his knees. He wobbled just a moment before catching his balance, but not before Gregory noticed.

“It’s normal. It happened to me also.”

“What are you talking about?”

Gregory shook his head. “Not here.” 

That was all the conversation that Christophe could weasel out of the blonde, which was astounding. He had remembered Gregory to be the type to ramble on, and make speeches, and generally put him to sleep. Now the man was being secretive and skeptical- which be a nice change of pace if it weren’t for the horrid mixture of paranoia and physical illness in his gut. 

Gregory was not sympathetic with his pace as Christophe followed, tripping over his own feet while his headache still raged. “This is not fair connard, you write me some bullshit letter and then something fucking snaps in my ‘ead and now you lead me around in the like some secret agent duckling?!” He scowled as the blonde turned to him, a few bangs hanging down from his otherwise pristine combed back hair. “Oh, I’m sorry, is me not blindly following you not a part of ze fucking plan? Eric DAMN IT you know me better than this mon deau.” His voice was escalating, and he felt Gregory shove his back against the bricks of the wall.

“Will you shut up before you get us both hung for heresy you fucking cretin?!” 

Okay, so Gregory was swearing. Mole saw Gregory’s fists tighten, as did his in response. He opened his mouth with the start of a snarl, before a hand over it quickly stopped him.

“Who’s there?” A not-so-faraway man’s voice hollered. “What are you doing there?” The man was wearing a formal blue and red uniform, with short strings lining the shoulder pads. A blue cap adorned his head with a yellow tassel, and he stood with the straightness of a man who had a stick shoved straight up his ass. Christophe might’ve laughed at the ridiculousness of his attire if it weren’t for the large gun the man held in his gloved hands.

Gregory’s gaze flashed to the man and quickly back to Christophe, before taking a breath in and pressing his body flat against Christophe’s. The hand on his mouth shifted to entangle itself into messy brown locks, and Gregory’s lips pressed against the skin of Christophe’s ear. “Don’t move.” He commanded in a husky whisper which made Christophe shiver down to his toes.

Christophe could feel every individual muscle in his body tensing up against the particularly invasive heat. “The fuck? Greg-” he hissed, his shove only resulting in the blonde pressing him harder against the wall.

“Shut up.” He hissed, his breath hot and leaving no room for argument. His fingers lightly caressed Mole’s scalp before tightening their grip and yanking harshly on the brown locks.

“fffUCK-” Mole groaned, with much less bite than he’d intended when he opened his mouth.

The stranger took a few steps closer, approaching with a gun at the ready. He frowned with disgust when he realized what it was that he had walked in on, meeting eyes with the brunette as he hissed at Gregory’s roughness. In the chaos of it all, he could see the man shouldering his gun, and kicking up dirt as he about-faced with a huff. “Ugh. Get a room, fucking faggots. Can’t believe the bullshit I have to deal with on duty, honestly.”

Christophe could feel Gregory’s heated breath against his skin as they waited, silently frozen against each other until the man was further out of sight. He could feel his own heart beating quickly against Gregory’s, unsure of whether it was because he just had a gun pulled on him, or because he was pressed flush against prince fucking blondie. He could swear that he felt those fingers caress the spot that they’d hurt for just a moment, no longer than a second or two, before retreating back to the blonde’s side.

“We need to keep moving.” Gregory said.

“That guy had a fucking gun.” Christophe whispered, now really regretting not bringing his own. “and what the fuck is this- get off!” He growled, shoving the other man back. 

Gregory coughed, his own face tinged scarlet as his defenses raised. “Excuse you, but what else do people do in dark alleys, aside from planning anarchy or having a rendezvous?! I assumed that the GOP would prefer one over the other.”

“Ahh right of course, mon amie! I often go on missions where I’m forced to shove my tongue in someone’s ear. I understand entirely.” Okay, so it hadn’t gotten that far… but it was far enough that Mole still had a blush up to his ears; and he knew he had nowhere to hide.

“I just saved your life, how about ‘Thank you Gregory, that was marvelous’ or ‘Good show Gregory, we really fooled him’? How about how I just saved you from the bloody GOP twice in ten minutes, and you’re the one who can’t move past thinking with your dick?!”

A retort didn’t come right away, because Gregory was right as he usually was- even using his words from who knows how long ago against him. Typical, overachieving asshole. He let out a small ‘Nngh’, and scowled. Mole could see Gregory looking both ways again, scanning for others of the same sort. The men in the blue and red uniforms; Mole had never seen them before. It wasn’t like he’d been away from this city for terribly long either, not for such drastic changes to occur. “…who are the GOP?” He muttered, in an attempt to change the subject.

The blonde furrowed his brow, his annoyed blue eyes falling to a look of genuine confusion. “Guards of piety, of course.”

“Never heard of them.” 

Gregory paused, pursing his lips while he seemed to ponder something deeply while mumbling. “How long… have you been unaffected by the shift?” 

Christophe scowled with frustration. He knew he was a bit disconnected from society, but not to the point where people are pointing guns at random citizens. He pushed himself off the wall, straightening himself despite the protests of his head. “Just get us somewhere quiet so you can tell me what the fuck is going on.” 

Gregory loosened up, smiling gently. “That’s more or less been the goal for the last hour so… yes, gladly. My house isn’t terribly far.” 

Any distance was fine, so long as he could get a fucking Tylenol and a cigarette. God was probably laughing from his throne of clouds, mocking him from the heavens…. The bastard. God can suck a fat one; and so can this British faggot piece of shit who was still walking like the ground should be grateful for his footsteps. 

…and to think Mole might’ve almost forgotten how much he hated to leave the house.


	2. He's crazier than I am

It was difficult not to dwell in nostalgia as they walked the city streets of London. Gregory used to invite him here during breaks- insisting that Christophe not spend all of his summers “mulling about” while Gregory’s travelled through Europe. He remembered the blonde pointing at every little thing, so eager to teach Mole the details of his hometown. Now as an adult, his vision of the town was largely skewed from before. People hurried busily to their destinations, younger generations entwining their fingertips and whispering forget-me-nots, as those who were older sighed into their cups of coffee.  The cobblestone pillars were no longer “home-base”, and the market was no longer an “objective”. One thing, however, was the same- the two were still wary around men of uniform. At that fact, Christophe lips curled into a semblance of one who stared closely enough might call a smile. Some things never change.

“I’m going to purchase bread. Would you care for anything?” The blonde was always too carefree for his own good.

The aroma of freshly baked goods made Christophe’s mouth water, but his stomach protested. “Non. I want to be ‘ome.” _Which_ home, he didn’t specify. His wording seemed to make Gregory smile, so he didn’t correct himself. He’d give anything to be in a dark room with a pillow over his head. He’d sleep soundly on the god-damned floor at this point. Anything to get that damned sun out of his face, which made his head pound every time he moved.

Gregory still purchased a loaf, with oats- the one Mole had always opted for in their younger days. Gregory’s memory was a scary thing indeed. The shopkeeper was young, in her early 20’s, and smiling a bit too eagerly at the blonde customer. She twisted a finger through her long brown locks, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth at the end of each sentence. Gregory leaned over the counter on one arm, whispering something a bit too closely to her that Mole couldn’t quite catch. Whatever it was had made the girl’s face flush red, while she giggled and added a few other things to the bag.

Christophe rolled his eyes, and paid the price with a fresh round of pain making his stomach roll along with them. Damned stupid prince charming Gregory. He still had yet to punch him- and now he deserved it twice as much. The bastard would flirt with anything with legs, he was sure. He shouldn’t blame the girl for being so flustered in the face of those golden curls. They had only seemed to become more vibrant from when Christophe had known him last, as Gregory had grown from a young, ambitious student into a man. Gregory knew just how lower his eyelids so that amber lashes just barely skirted the icy blue hues of his eyes. The accent, the low chuckle he always faked when he was trying to get something out of someone… Christophe had memorized it all. It was pathetic, the whole act. He turned his head from the situation, thinking about just how soft Gregory’s lips had felt on his ear- how husked his voice had become as he yanked him back by the hair, _instructing_ him…

“Are you alright, Christophe?” Gregory asked innocently, his bags in hand.

The brunette nearly jumped, his eyes immediately narrowing into their usual scowl. “ _Bien entendu_ , I’m fantastic. Feel free to continue eye-fucking zat _salope.”_ He shot bitterly.

“Good to see you’re still yourself!” The cheer in Gregory’s voice was most certainly sarcastic, and the passing moment of the grin that Christophe caught on the blonde’s face made him want to scratch it off. _Stupid fucking Brit._

_\------------_

Christophe raised his brow in surprise when Gregory turned onto a doorstep of a humble house just on the outskirts of town. The house was a dull yellow with light blue shutters, and a few windows scattered about. There was a flowerbox in each window, vibrantly decorating the exterior with hues of pink, yellow, and blue. Mole stepped slowly, his eyes taking in every feature of just the outside. The sidewalk leading up to the front door was lined carefully with little round stones. Every few stones, one may say “happiness”, or “determination” in a black, curly font. It was cheesy and unnecessary, sort of like Gregory. The house, however, was much more modest. It was strange; nothing like Gregory’s parents’ house.

“You live here?” Christophe watched the blonde continue walking ahead of him, who pulled a small keyring from his pocket and pushed the door open with a small ‘click’.

“Please come in. Ah- I must request that you take off your shoes. I’ve still an aversion to dirt on the carpet.”

Christophe snorted in response, though undid the laces of his sneakers before kicking them off in the entryway. He’d learned to pick his battles- and one regarding shoes was one he learned he’d never win. While Gregory busied himself putting away his groceries, Christophe let his curiosity lead him around the house as he ventured further in. There weren’t pictures of family or friends adorning the walls, instead there were paintings. Flowers, scenery; nothing of any grand worth from what Christophe could tell. The couches were a seafoam green, just faded enough to be considered homey amidst the hardwood floors.

He inhaled deeply, a fresh scent helping his stomach to settle a bit as he lowered himself down into the sofa. It was a bit nice, breathing in something that wasn’t stale cigarettes. It smelled a bit like fresh laundry, a sunny patio, and cedar. Everything seemed to be just old enough to be vintage, while new enough to be fashionable. Fact # 458 about Gregory: He was good at interior decorating. Christophe could hardly complain as he let his eyes flutter shut, slouching with his arms folded over his stomach. What a stupid thing to be good at. Interior decoration. It was comfortable though, he wouldn’t argue that point.

He opened his eyes a few moments later to the sound of footsteps entering, and the smell of something fantastic. It was nothing grandiose, the silver tray set in front of him, but his headache had astonishingly almost completely vanished. Atop the tray there sat a white ornate porcelain teapot, two cups with matching trays, and a small saucer for milk. An array of small biscuits and cookies lined the opposing side while miniature sandwiches sat amidst the middle, each ordained with its own toothpick.

“You made all z’is in the last few minutes?” He quipped, eyes raking over all the fresh food.

Gregory chuckled. “You’ve been sleeping for nearly two hours, Christophe. I was afraid you might murder me if I tried to wake you.” He picked up the pot and poured out a cup for each of them, watching Christophe try to decide if he should be the first to eat. “Please, go ahead.”

Christophe hesitated no longer, picking up a sliced cucumber sandwich and making the entire morsel disappear in one single bite. “Mershi”, he managed between a mouth full of food. Gregory was being awfully nice. Too nice. Christophe had fallen asleep in a house he’d never been inside before, around a man he hadn’t seen in years. That made two fatal mistakes in only a few hours. He cursed himself for being so comfortable- he also blamed the headache.

Gregory took a small, polite sip of his tea before placing it down carefully. Christophe knew that look. The one where Gregory made only a moment’s worth of eye contact before flitting his attention elsewhere, taking in a long breath through his nose. He had something to say, a lot probably, but it wasn’t perfectly written in his brain. The blonde spent far too much time formulating his words so that they’re perfect.

Christophe huffed, devouring a cookie with the same vigor as the sandwich. That’s why he loved pissing off Gregory so much, aside from it being really, really funny. He got to see him out of his element- the _real_ Gregory. Not the carefully calculated, prince charming bullshit. He liked the real Gregory far better, even if he only got to see it when Gregory was near set off with rage. Sometimes, you have to make do with what you can.

“So, regarding the events which occurred earlier…” Gregory started, clearly not interested in the food. “It’s… a long story. I’m not entirely sure where would be most beneficial to begin, or rather; _when_.”

“Now would be nice.”

Gregory sighed. “Not what I meant.” He put a hand on his knee and pushed himself up, folding his arms and staring towards the wall. Staring anywhere except Christophe, as he tried to organize his thoughts. “What do you know about… _Him_?”

“You’re going to ‘ave to be more specific. I’m not a mind reader.” Though sometimes he really wished he were, if for no other reason than to fuck with the blonde.

Gregory pulled the window curtain to the side, eyes shifting as if someone might have their ear pressed against the glass. And here Christophe thought _he_ was the paranoid one. “You know, the so-called ‘creator’.” He turned back and took a seat much closer to Christophe, to the man’s obvious distain. He continued as if speaking in a higher decibel than a whisper might somehow kill him. “ _Eric Cartman_.”

“Easy. He’s a fat chubby piece of- nnGH” Christophe brought his hand to his forehead, his fingernails digging into his scalp. He remembered the war, the stupid Canadian fuckers, the dogs; and it was that man’s fault- but then he remembered church, the pews, sitting with his mother as the choir hummed in unison behind the preacher. _Our father, our lord, our creator, e-r-i-c, alleluia, alleluiaaa…_

__A hand on his shoulder snapped him from the barrage of images, and he shuddered away with a growl. “W-what the fuck is this?! I- It was the Canadian war, oui? But then, why do I feel like ‘e is also a religious cocksucker?”

“You… remember? Christophe, you actually- wait, no I have to go back. How is this possible?!” A wide smile of childish glee washed over Gregory’s features, and Christophe couldn’t be any more confused. Gregory knew that Christophe was quickly becoming agitated again, so he continued quickly. “The Canadian War, I don’t remember it, but I’ve _read_ about it and it’s fascinating- and you remember. This is- this is phenomenal Christophe! How much do you remember? Everything? Pieces?”

The brunette scowled, the word on the tip of his tongue was “everything”, but his brain disagreed. “The meeting with z’at cocksucker, and you. Going to… a show? The fucking-” he paused, his headache looming and threatening to return with a vengeance. “The dogs.” He said quietly. His expression fell, his features crumpling in frustration. He felt like he was trying to remember a dream that he once had, and yet amidst the cloudiness he could still feel the sting of teeth sinking into his skin, tearing flesh from bone as he crawled quickly, desperately. Choking on his own blood. He ran a hand over the arm, along the place where white scars lined and speckled his skin.

_They weren’t there._

Gregory frowned, Christophe’s chest rising and falling much faster than before. Panic. That wasn’t his intent. “It’s okay! It’s okay. Listen, He changed everything. The past, history. He… he changed everything.”

Christophe’s eyes still stared down at his arm, his fingers brushing over smooth, dark skin. “What the fuck? What the actual _fuck_?”

Please, breathe. It was all real alright? You’re hardly crazy- it seems you’re the sanest person I’ve met all month.” Gregory bit his lip. Panicked Christophe was unnerving, he’d vastly prefer yelling to… whatever this was. “I can show you. I have it all logged, everything- the _real_ history. The things that everyone has forgotten.” He met Christophe’s gaze for a moment, the brunette’s eyes eerily vacant. Not arrogant, not angry… just confused. He’d daresay that the brunette was close to _scared_.

“I died, I fucking died… right?” He was more so cursing to himself than he was to the blonde, who he’d temporarily forgotten.

Gregory rose quickly, taking the tray off the table and stepping off into the next room. He returned as quickly as he could with his laptop, fumbling with it a moment before situating himself next to Christophe. “Look, I have it all written here in my journals. This computer, it’s one of three things that somehow don’t get erased when the timeline is shifted.” He scanned through his files, eyes darting over dates before he found dated ‘June 30’. “Here, see? It’s the war- it’s a record of it all. You’re here. You were there and…” He held his breath a moment, unsure of how far to continue. “And yes… you died.”

Christophe huffed, folding his arms and letting his eyes scan over a few sentences of the words typed up on the screen. All in Gregory’s arrogant, wordy POV. He let out a small chuckle, and then a laugh, and the volume only grew until Gregory shifted away his gaze, uncomfortably.

“You know what the funniest part is?” Christophe bellowed, wiping the moisture from his eye. “I almost fucking believed you. Shit- was the guard a part of this too? To call me after all these years only to convince me z’at I’m fucking nuts and that fat bastard somehow has the power to change time?” His breathing was still coming in quick, short bursts, and sweat had formed along the top of his forehead.

Gregory frowned, searching quickly through his files. “Look, during the war- Satan left a case behind. Most of the things inside were trivial, and quite frankly disgusting…” He paused at the unpleasant thought. “But there were electronics. And somehow- somehow they’re unaffected by the shifts. I have them. I’ve logged _everything_!”

Christophe’s laughter was nearly cackles at this point. Desperately confused cackles.

“Just, Christophe just _look_ for a moment and I’ll prove it to you! Cartman somehow figured out how to build a time machine, and every night he’s-”

“You’re a real asshole, you know z’at?”

Gregory staring desperately at the brunette, unsure of how to make himself sound less crazy than he felt. The silence made him feel like his throat was closing up. Like he was _suffocating_. “No, but!”

“Non. I’m going home. Don’t fucking contact me again.”

Gregory’s fists clenched in his lap, his breath quickening before hastily getting up and heading to the other room, coming back and throwing a small device in Christophe’s direction.

The brunette caught it on reflex, scowling before turning it over in his hands. It had a small screen, and barely what you could call a keyboard. The thing looked like some bullshit out of a 90’s movie. “What is this?”

“It’s a personal planner. You take notes on it.”

Christophe threw it back. “I don’t want this shit.”

Gregory walked forward, shoving it back into Christophe’s hand’s personally. “Take this and write in it. I don’t care what, just, _something_ that’ll make you remember. My address is in it.” His voice sounded pathetic and agitated, and Christophe quirked a brow at him. “That’s one of the items I spoke of. The laptop, the planner, and a camera. They’re the only things I have… they’re the only reason I remember and that… the fat _bastard_ isn’t God.” He wanted to fall apart. Everything sounded so hopeless when he put it into words- he was nearly ready to institutionalize _himself_ for goodness sake. “He isn’t God, Christophe. I _know_ it… Nobody will fucking believe me, and I can’t fix this alone…”

“You’re a fucking lunatic.” Christophe spat, standing and shoving the device into his pocket. “I don’t know what your goal is here, but I won’t be played for a fucking idiot.”

Gregory scowled, standing and glowering in the small height advantage that he held over the brunette. “I don’t think you’re an idiot! I thought you’d be the only person who’d actually listen to me! But maybe you’re more of a fucking ignoramus than I’d thought!” Gregory yelped as a fist came up and knocked him in the jaw, and the stinging sensation of his teeth piercing into his gums ripped through his mouth angrily.

Gregory stared up from where he’d stumbled back onto the arm of the couch, and Christophe glowered over him with tight fists. There was blood leaking from the side of the blonde’s mouth, which he smeared across his skin with the side of his hand. Fuck. Even without that smug grin, Gregory still looked hot.

Christophe turned back towards the door, memorizing the image of Gregory with a bloody lip and breathing angrily through his nose in his mind. It didn’t feel nearly as satisfying as he’d imagined it to.

“Just write in it. _Promise me_.” Gregory’s voice cracked, pathetically. “You’ll forget! You’ll forget and I need you to remember... _Please Christophe_.”

The brunette paused for a moment in the doorway. “Whatever”, he grumbled as he let the door slam shut behind him.

\--------

He was angry the entire trip home. At himself for leaving in the first place. At Gregory for being such a piece of shit for baiting him. At his dick for insisting on forcing certain memories to the forefront of his mind. The train hostess nearly yelped when Christophe shot her a look that a grown man would’ve crossed the street to avoid. Whatever- that just meant that he had a small section to himself. _Fucking blonde Brit._

__Home stunk just as badly as he’d remembered it. At least the concessions stand outside the station had sold cigarettes. He lit one up immediately, before kicking off his pants and burying himself into the broken-in couch. He flipped the “personal planner” around in his hands, fiddling with it until he managed to get a writing document open. Hell, the only things the planner had on it were ‘journal’, ‘calendar’, and ‘alarm clock’. He took another deep lungful, blowing smoke at the tiny screen and watching it cloud off in every direction.

‘Gregory’s a fucking asshole.’ He typed in self-satisfaction. With the mixture of nicotine, and finally being home, he grinned widely. Maybe there was something to this journaling thing after all. ‘He has the nerve to call me to his home, make me travel, shove me into a wall and pull my hair, practically shove his tongue in my ear’ He paused. So much detail wasn’t necessary-  his own fucking journal was going to make him horny.  His memory did that well enough, much to his annoyance. He deleted the latter, simply going with ‘He’s a faggot that thinks his good looks can get anyone in his pants.’

He kept the cigarette in his mouth, taking small puffs from it so he could use both hands on the tiny keys. ‘He thinks that the fat bastard Cartman can time travel. He’s fucking crazy- or he’s trying to make me crazy. He thinks I will forget, he’s making me write in this stupid journal.’ He paused, the ash from his cigarette landing on the floor at his feet. ‘Non- I’m writing because I want to prove his pretty British ass wrong.’ _Prissy._ He meant ‘ _prissy’_. He swore that Gregory wore pants that were just a size too tight to emphasize it. It didn’t matter if you were a girl or a boy, Gregory knew how to make you swoon and blush with only a glance and a well-timed purr. _Fuck._

He hated that guy. He’d never admit how much he couldn’t stop thinking about him as he ate the least spoiled vegetables from the fridge, or as he flicked on the television before bed, or especially not as his sleep deprived mind betrayed him and he shivered while he touched himself beneath the sheets. The fresh memory of ‘ _Christophe, please…’_ is what did him in with one final, drawled groan. Fucking blonde. Fucking sexy Brit. Fucking stupid faggot mind.

The room was dark now, illuminated only by the small electronic decide he held in his hands. ‘I hate him. He thinks that he’s smarter than me, but I won’t be fooled.’ And a new paragraph: ‘He looks good with blood in his teeth. Maybe I’ll do it again sometime.’ He typed, unable to give a reason as to why he was still writing in the damned thing at all.

Sleep didn’t come quickly after. He was anxious. He kept checking his watch to see if it was morning yet, and staring at that stupid journal. He didn’t want to be crazy- he wanted it to be morning. Damned Gregory and playing on his paranoia, the bastard. He’d get him back for this somehow. Somehow…

               


	3. A Job's a Job

It’s always a surreal thing, waking up without being stirred by something specific. No alarm, no sunlight; just your brain saying that it’s had enough. Christophe dug his fingertips into his palm, letting out a long groan as he stretched his muscles. Another day of no work, no plans, and plenty of sleep. He certainly couldn’t complain.

Half of his limbs were still insisting on staying still as he arose from his bed, groggily slumping over to the kitchen. He may not have any food, but if he was lucky there might be some milk that wasn’t too far expired… he wasn’t banking on it.

The light from the fridge was the only thing which illuminated the house, which was shrouded in blackout curtains just the way Christophe liked it. He winced at the intrusion, blinking his eyes a few times at the various items filling the space. Fruit, eggs, vegetables, meat… Christophe was lazy, sure, but he could still cook for himself. This was a lot of food- when did he buy so much food? He inhaled the cool air from inside, reaching his hand forward for only a moment before his vision blurred. He felt a sudden head rush, quickly grasping at the handle to the freezer to stabilize himself. Yellow, yellow, yellow- that was all he could see for a few frightening seconds as he clutched tightly to the appliance. He took a few shallow breaths in, waiting for his vision to clear before attempting to stand straight again. Fuck, he needed caffeine before he even _moved_ in the morning now? Maybe he needed to cut back… another day.

He stood on his toes in order to reach for his favorite coffee mug from the taller cabinet (really it was just brown, but he loved it regardless).  He was content; a mug of coffee in hand while slugging into the living room, sinking himself deeply into the couch. He wouldn’t trade this lifestyle for anything. All he had to worry about were which re-runs he’d have to avoid in order to be entertained for the day, and maybe a raccoon getting into his trash. He liked to watch them from the window. They were scavengers, like him. Everybody had to make a living somehow, even if that living was taking shadier jobs he found in the dark web.

Halfway through his mug of coffee and his second cigarette, his glance fell upon the small silver device near the edge of his coffee table. Christophe had no recollection of where it may have come from, and that was enough to make his knuckles whiten against the handle of his mug. His eyes darted around the house suspiciously, as if someone else may be inside it with him- but he’d surely have seen them by now. He set his mug down quietly as he could and picked up the device. It was rectangular like a cell phone, but the front was thin like the cover of a book. He handled it carefully, like it might explode if he held it wrong, and he flipped it open.

It was a simple thing. Small electronic icons for alarms, a calendar, and some journal-type application. Clicking over to journal (as the most obvious starting point) he found that there were two entries written: one dated nearly a month ago, and one dated yesterday. Yesterday? _Shit_. Then where the hell did this come from? He thumbed over the entry from the day before, his breath halting as he read over the words.

_Gregory’s a fucking asshole. He’s a faggot that thinks his good looks can get anyone in his pants. He thinks that the fat bastard Cartman can time travel. He’s fucking crazy- or he’s trying to make me crazy. He thinks I will forget, he’s making me write in this stupid journal. Non- I’m writing because I want to prove his pretty British ass wrong. I hate him. He thinks that he’s smarter than me, but I won’t be fooled._

And if Christophe’s heart weren’t beating fast enough, the next line certainly did it:

_He looks good with blood in his teeth. Maybe I’ll do it again sometime._

Christophe read it over, more times than necessary, and stared at the screen until it timed out and went blank. _What the fuck?_ It sounded so… like _himself_. He’d nearly read it in his own voice. And Gregory? He hadn’t thought about that blonde asshole in ages. Scrolling over the sentences again did nothing but irritate him further. None of it made sense- Cartman? Cartman as in the creator? Shit, saying that the guy who supposedly created the universe could time travel was a really roundabout way of describing omnipotence. Granted, Christophe still thought Cartman was a fucking asshole. Anyone who creates a world filled with such shit has gotta be an asshole, right?

And Gregory… and blood? Each sentence left him more confused than the last, but he could _picture it_. He could imagine a whole scenario: Gregory half staggered against a couch, wiping blood from his lips across the tips of his knuckles and looking at him with that sneer… Fuck, it was sort of _hot_. Maybe that’s why his head felt so foggy. He had some bullshit dream about a former classmate, and he’s still half-asleep thinking about it.

His eyes returned to the silver device in his hands. But ‘non’ is written… so either someone’s royally fucking with him… well, he didn’t have another answer for it. Someone was imitating him on purpose- someone who knew that he had been friends with Gregory. But something about it also felt so… off. He flicked open his pack of cigarettes, lighting up and taking a long drag as his free hand fiddled with the e-journal. There was still one other document.

He furrowed his brow, teeth grazing over the filter of his cigarette as he read the words:

Gregory Anderson

57 Shenfield rd

CM15 8AA

That blonde faggot again. Maybe that’s where the device had come from. Gregory must have somehow broken into his house and was playing some kind of stupid prank. But at the same time, for Gregory to write about himself in such a strange way… he’d probably have worded it something closer to ‘His lips are as soft as the silken weavings of-’ He froze, suddenly remembering something. Part of a dream?

_His lips._

Christophe felt the stale air burning in his lungs, as heat rose to his ears. Okay, so he’d definitely had a stupid dream was that involved Gregory, it was _definitely_ still somewhere in his subconscious. He wished he could punch the dream-weaver, or the sand-man, or whatever stupid fucking asshole it was who’d decided to give him such a dumb fantasy. He settled for heading off to punch the real Gregory, the one who’d put some stupid electronic calling card with his address in it. The one who wrote shit about being good-looking and about time travel in the same paragraph. The one who he couldn’t stop thinking about hitting (among many other less than virtuous things, thanks to his stupid fucking brain) as he put on his jacket and headed out the door.

The air of the forest was a welcome change to the smell of smoke-stained upholstery. He knew that he needed to quit, just as soon as he could pass an hour without wanting to pry somebody’s head off. Smells of pine and cedar were much more pleasant compared to the odor of sweaty train passengers in the coming hours. But what Christophe found much, much more unnerving occurred after arrival. What made him tense was standing outside of a small two-story yellow house with blue shutters, and small round stones leading up to the door. Even fiddling with the end of his cigarette didn’t prove to calm his nerves- stupid jitters after not seeing the bastard for years. The number of the house was clearly written on the outside, and even if it weren’t Christophe still felt as if it were definitely Gregory’s. He wasn’t sure how, but he with a shaky hand rapping on the door he was _sure_ that he knew.

His knocks on the door sounded much too quiet for a normal person to have heard, yet Gregory appeared in the doorway mere moments after he’d made them. He looked the same as he’d remembered; better even. A tight orange button-down accentuating the blonde’s broad shoulders, tucked neatly into black slacks which looked like they’d been tailored just for him (and they probably were). Christophe swallowed hard, forgetting his manners in saying “hello”. Gregory still had those same blonde curls which looked more like those of an angel than a mortal, a few of which fell gracefully across the man’s forehead. The smile on Gregory’s lips looked far too expecting for this to have been mere coincidence. Mole simply stared, in anticipation of some sort of answer to a question he hadn’t asked. Luckily (and as much as he hated it most days), Gregory was known for having all the answers before even being asked.

“I’m so glad you came. You wrote in the journal as I’d requested of you, correct?” A self-satisfied smile. “Please, come inside.” He waved, welcoming the ‘stranger’ into his house.

So he knew about the device after all. Christophe grit his teeth, finding it difficult to keep his own tone in check. “I didn’t write shit. There was something with _your_ address in _my_ house.” He fished the silver device out of his pocket, holding it up between them both. Upon seeing the recognition reflected in the blonde’s eyes, Christophe furled his lip into a frown. “ _Why_?”

Gregory frowned. “You wrote all that, before Cartman’s time travelling caused a shift.”

“What sort of bullshit is this? I don’t hear a word from you in six years, and this is what you start with?  Some stupid joke?”

“Stupid joke?!” Gregory scowled. “I _told_ you that you would forget everything! That’s why I had you write a journal. Didn’t you write anything important, _anything_ that we talked about yesterday?!” He snatched the loosely held device from Christophe, who growled and chased after it in gusto.

“Non- give it back!” He decided, quickly running after the blonde further inside the house. Gregory seemed to know the device much better than he, however, and easily accessed exactly what he was looking for.

“Gregory is a fucking asshole”, Gregory read flatly, rolling his eyes. “He’s a faggot… that thinks his good looks-nNPH” Christophe’s shoulder lurched hard into Gregory’s stomach, forcing the air from Gregory’s lungs with a hard ‘ _OOF_ ’, and sending the two men reeling to the floor.

The device skidded underneath a nearby cabinet, while Christophe landed safely atop something warm and soft. Namely, Gregory.

“Get _off_ of me you buffoon!” Gregory struggled, hands raking at the ones holding his shoulders to the floor.

“NON, you will get the wrong idea reading it. I simply wanted to call you a faggot, eez all.”

Gregory paused, his familiar arrogant grin returning to his face. Christophe grimaced in return despite his flustered face, but it did nothing to bother the blonde’s confidence. “So you _do_ remember writing it then!”

Christophe had yet to figure out how someone could be so irritating yet so fucking attractive at the same time. Especially when said person is inches away from your face, grinning beneath you. Even pinned against the floor, Gregory always seemed to be winning. “I didn’t say that.”

“You most certainly did! And you called me a faggot too. That’s twice now, Christophe.”

“ _Vous êtes un fagot.”_

“Says the man pinning another man to the ground.”

Christophe scrambled off, quickly reaching a hand beneath the cabinet and retrieving the device. It was much safer in his pocket, for sure. Safe from prying eyes and stupid fucking Brits who can’t keep their noses out of other people’s business. Maybe he did write it. It was a blur, like he got too fucking drunk and can’t remember what had happened. It felt like he had all this extra time which his brain couldn’t quite sift through. He didn’t remember drinking, but if he had been drinking it would explain why he couldn’t remember in the first place. Then there was the problem of not having a hangover… no, it still wasn’t adding up.

“Explain shit. I do not remember meeting you, but every time I look at you it hurts my ‘ead….” He tried distracting his vision, looking everywhere but at the blonde on the floor. “It’s like… like something z’at should be there isn’t.”

Gregory came to his feet, not speaking a word until he had brushed off his thighs, arms, and ass. Damn that perfect fucker, couldn’t stand to be less than pristine for even a moment. “Please close the door behind you” he said. “I promise that it’ll all make sense soon enough.”

\---------------

Like most people who had ever been within the vicinity of such a charming blonde, Christophe soon found himself overwhelmed with logic and explanation. Unlike most people in Gregory’s vicinity, Christophe still swore and called him ‘fucking delisional’ every few sentences.

“I felt everything you feel right now. Confusion. Disbelief. Disorientation… I know it isn’t easy.”

Christophe scoffed, crossing his arms like a child. “Quit acting like you understand every little thing. It’s annoying.”

“But do you trust me?” A gleam of worry flashed through Gregory’s eyes, and Christophe glared at him with a knitted brow. Gregory was telling the truth… _or_ he was a great actor.

He turned his head away, his own expression dramatically bitter. “Non.”

The house remained silent and without protest for a few awkward seconds afterward; purposefully so. Christophe knew that Gregory was waiting on a real answer, and he _really_ didn’t want to give him one. Gregory was the only one who could play him for a fool. Every time the brunette had heard the words “time travel” spoken aloud in the last 30 minutes, he was reminded how impossible everything that he was being told really was.

_“It started when I’d began writing in that laptop, I didn’t think anything odd of it back then. I’d written about associates of Cartman inc. publishing a scholarly journal about time-travel. The next day when I’d resumed my own journal, the top story on the news blaring from my television had advertised Eric as becoming mayor- completely different from what I’d apparently written the day before. Eric was senator the day after. It continued all the same: president, miracle worker… even God. They said he was -God-, Christophe. It wasn’t like that before! I remembered none of it; nothing I’d written had held true for more than a day or two."_ He’d run a hand through his hair, his volume steadily increasing.

_“The journals just didn’t add up. Cartman is messing with our memories.._. _He’s ruining history, and I can’t even remember what in the bloody hell it is that he’s destroyed!”_ Gregory’s voice had wavered then, as if the words coming from his mouth were physically hurting him. Either he was lying, or he was batshit-crazy enough to believe what he was saying. Gregory had always been stupid, but not unintelligent. It’d take a lot of hard evidence to convince the blonde of something so… unbelievable.

Christophe crossed his arms, fingertips dancing across his skin anxiously. Whether it was the blonde’s tone, or the near desperate expression he wore when recounting his tale, Christophe’s mind found it a more likely story than ‘I got drunk and can’t remember’. Despite it all, Gregory still had a way of making himself convincing. Christophe was jealous of the way he could influence people with a few words and a smile. At his best, the brunette could make people swoon with a few smoothly spoken words of French. Gregory could probably lead an entire army if he wanted to, and never have to touch a sword.

No… the sword would surely be Christophe’s job in such a war. Weapons weren’t made for people who had leadership skills like Gregory Anderson. The two of them would be a battalion against God; or at least, _maybe_ it was God. Not like it mattered- Christophe had always hated the bastard anyways. God, Cartman; they were all assholes in the end, and he himself was always in need of a good paycheck.

An audible groan preluded Christophe’s concession, but Gregory caught the corners of a smile rising on the brunette’s lips. “I mean, It’s not like I ‘ave much choice, do I?” Gregory smiled in return, beaming with a real genuine smile which left Christophe a bit stunned. It took him a moment to break eye contact, feigning a cough. “…but this ‘ad better be worth my while, mon cher. I don’t work for faggy reasons like freedom and pride.”

 “No, I never supposed that you would.” Gregory hummed, letting his tight posture fall into something more relaxed. “I suppose that some things never change, do they?” He held out his right hand with a friendly confidence.

Christophe paused, hesitating for one final moment before giving a slight nod and accepting a firm handshake. “You ‘ave no idea.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this far! I'm super stoked about getting further into this, and I'd love to hear your thoughts. I know it's super convoluted, time travel/religion is something that I probably shouldn't have touched with a ten foot pole, yet here we are! Thanks for R+R!

**Author's Note:**

> Are you a bit confused? I would be. Things are about to get a bit intricate. Thanks for sticking with it!


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